Looking for Mr. Jones

You don’t know what’s happening here, do you, Mr. Jones?

So sang Bob Dylan way back when, in a different American era, one that almost seems like an age of innocence now, even though it was anything but innocent. Still, I get the feeling that nobody knows what’s happening in America anymore – or more accurately – nobody in power knows. People on the street know well enough, even if they can’t put what they know into words. Not that they need to describe what they are living through, day after day.

The Fear that Hunter S. Thompson wrote about so often is upon us and we can’t shake it. The good Doctor saw it coming. What is the Fear you ask? Fear that the American era is over, that our global hegemony is untenable, and that the American Dream is finally and forever DOA. Fear that undesirables with dark skin, speaking in unfamiliar tongues or praying to an unfamiliar god are poised to overrun the country. Fear that our own government is a threat to freedom and liberty.

It’s a strange time, no doubt about it. The will of the people doesn’t seem to hold much sway in the scheme of things, but how can the will of the people compete with the buying and lobbying power of Corporate America? Plutocrats own the machinery of power, the airwaves, the courts, and the Congress; they write the rules and rig the game for their advantage and, judging by the obscene gap between the super rich and everybody else, their success can only be described as spectacular.

Take away the military power and the United States is a model banana republic.

Irony is everywhere. It takes a legislative slugfest to appropriate a relatively modest amount of money to extend unemployment benefits to idled workers, but billions of tax dollars are funneled into corporate bailouts, undeclared foreign wars and tax cuts for the wealthy with little or no debate and no cries for “fiscal austerity.” The Deepwater Horizon explodes and sinks, killing eleven workers and spewing millions of gallons of oil into the ocean. We hear next to nothing about those eleven workers or their survivors while BP spokespeople assure us that BP is doing everything in its power to make the Gulf right again. If this is true, why is so much of BP’s work shrouded in secrecy? Why won’t BP share its data with independent scientists? Our president tells us that Gulf beaches are open and that Gulf seafood is safe. If that’s true, why do locals refuse to eat the stuff?

Welcome to Oz. The Yellow Brick Road is due south. Keep walking.

Former senator Alan Simpson, co-chair of President Obama’s deficit reduction commission, is a crusty old fart who derides Social Security recipients as loafers, while he collects a generous taxpayer funded pension.

Glenn Beck, an unhinged right-wing demagogue, co-opts Martin Luther King Jr. and insists that he, Beck, is the man to restore America’s honor. Only a man with no honor could make such a bizarre claim.

A proposal to build a Muslim community center near Ground Zero in Manhattan that drew little attention when it was first announced suddenly becomes a lightning rod of controversy and vitriol that exposes a dark side of the American psyche. The deeds of a small group of fanatics from Saudi Arabia condemn an entire religion and its adherents as terrorists. Fear trumps common sense. Religious tolerance is jettisoned in favor of demagoguery. Hysteria tramples reason. All Muslims are guilty by association. All Muslims hate America. All Muslims are hiding explosives and looking for something or someone to blow up.

Where are you, Mr. Jones?

The United States invaded Iraq, destroyed Iraq, occupied Iraq, and is leaving (well, not really, not now, not ever) Iraq in a terrible political, economic, social and environmental mess. We call this victory.

Has everyone gone mad? Is there an antidote for this KoolAid?

Afghanistan is a military, monetary and moral sinkhole. Many of our allies have seen enough and are unwilling to ante up more coin or blood for a cause that is certainly doomed. The war in Afghanistan belongs to the United States, lock, stock and killing field. The war cannot be won under any circumstances, and the United States cannot exit without looking weak and emboldening the terrorists. Or so the conventional wisdom goes. The Afghanistan sinkhole will ruin us, despite General Petraeus’ promises to the contrary. Polling shows that a majority of Americans oppose the war but does this fact sway the politicians and generals?

Come back here, Mr. Jones. I want to talk to you, man.

The Democratic Party cannot tell a coherent narrative about what and who it stands for, and the Republicans do nothing but sing a chorus of No, No, No. Rigid ideology triumphs over pragmatic flexibility to the detriment of citizens from Maine to Oregon. How long can we continue this way?

Mr. Jones isn’t talking. Mr. Jones has nothing to say.

Dog Days Potpourri

We’re in what they call the dog days now, that part of summer when lassitude replaces energy and the baseball pennant races take definite shape. My Yankees are still in first place but I have an uneasy feeling that the defending champs had better watch out for an ambush from the Red Sox.

Flooding in Pakistan and China, record setting heat and raging wildfires in Russia. I heard a meteorologist on Democracy Now say that seventeen different nations have recorded all-time high temperatures this summer. Is this evidence of a planet simmering in greenhouse gas? What other explanation is there? Europeans get it; Latin American nations do too.

But not on the fruited plain. America is the land of make believe, where people like Rush Limbaugh froth and fulminate for hours every week about liberal plots to weaken this great nation, turn it away from the hallowed ground of capitalism and individual freedom. If you believe Rush Limbaugh, global warming is nothing more than a liberal ruse designed to rob decent Americans of their birthright. I can hear Limbaugh’s voice in my head: Don’t worry about the extreme weather you see around the world – get in your car and burn all the gas you can afford. Car-pooling is for liberal sissies! Bicycles are for Europeans! Mass transit is for socialists! You’re an American and it’s your divine right to buy toilet paper, dog food and laundry soap in bulk and drive all day and night if you damn well feel like it.

American denial. It’s going to nail us in the ass. Reality is a terrible thing to ignore.

As the dog days drag on, here are some things I find annoying:

Baseball players who cross themselves or point skyward after knocking a base hit or a home run, as if God is paying a whit of attention to them. I don’t think God is watching. Frankly, I don’t think God give’s a shit about baseball or any other sport for that matter. OK, maybe God follows the World Cup every four years, but that’s it. I’m certain God doesn’t root for any one team or any particular player; if God did, the Chicago Cubs would have won a World Series at least once during the past century.

Baseball announcers who talk about pitchers as if they are a weak sub-species of professional athlete. “Oh, I wonder if having to run the bases is going to take something out of Roy Halladay’s fastball. He was out on the base paths a long time last inning and we’ll see if that affects his velocity.”

Give me a break.

Sports fans who slap high fives in the stands. That’s almost as lame as the wave.

Any television commercial hawking fast food, though I reserve particular malice for Carl’s Junior: “Don’t bother me, I’m sucking down enough fat, sodium and cholesterol to stop an elephant’s heart.”

Gag.

I just remembered another annoying thing about baseball players: jewelry. What’s the deal with baseball players and the junk they wear around their necks? St. Christopher medals, Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception medallions, barricuda teeth, wolverine testicles, strings of garlic, strands of twisted leather, and gold chains that look hefty enough to pull an Abrams tank from a ditch.

Oh, sweet Jesus, ESPN’s camera just stopped on the face of George W. Bush, worst president in American history. W and Laura are sitting with Nolan Ryan at the Yankees-Rangers game in Arlington. Ryan appears to be doing all the talking, no doubt trying to explain the mechanics of throwing a split-finger fastball in a 0-2 count. “What you want to do is bounce that pitch about six inches in front of the dish, make the hitter go down and get it.” Laura is smiling as if genuinely interested (I’d bet heavily that she’s bored out of her skull) while her husband shoves peanuts into his mouth. I wonder if Bush, now that he’s retired, ever thinks of all the human beings who died violent deaths while he resided in the White House. Probably not. Bush was never one for introspection. Shit happens. War is messy. Hell, most of them were Muslims anyway. Our God is better than their God.

These dogs are too tired to bark, and even the approach of an intrepid Jehovah’s Witness can’t coax them off the shade porch. I guess the dogs will eat when they get hungry enough.

Duke Meets the Flatfoots

I hadn’t seen or heard much of Dr. Duke since his botched suicide attempt. Aside from a postcard from Maui, a cryptic e-mail that alluded to a baby shower, and another postcard from Portland, Maine, I hadn’t had a word, and the one time I went by his house he wasn’t home.

For once the call came at a reasonable hour – 6:15 a.m. – and that alone should have put me on alert.

“Two FBI agents just left my house,” Duke said.

“I’m about to read the New York Times,” I said.

“The hell with that lying rag,” Duke said. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Talk,” I said.

The agents rapped on Duke’s front door at 3:30 a.m., perhaps hoping to catch him off-guard, clearly unaware that Duke is a nocturnal creature – more alert at 3:30 a.m. than he is at high noon. One agent was named Connors and the other was named Stevens -- both from the National Security Branch of the Los Angeles field office. Badges and credentials were scrutinized carefully and found to be in order. Connors, the older of the two, wore wingtips and a Brooks Brothers suit and reminded Duke of a CPA; Stevens was new to the trade and wore a Hugo Boss suit and shiny new loafers; Duke disliked him from the jump. It was the fresh out of college gung-ho attitude and the Oklahoma accent.

“Good thing I wasn’t smoking a joint,” Duke said. “That would have been awkward.”

More curious than alarmed, Duke showed the agents into his living room, offered them coffee, and got himself a Corona. He didn’t have anything better to do as he was between romantic entanglements, and sparring verbally with a couple of Federal agents broke the monotony and promised mental stimulation.

The agents made it clear that Duke wasn’t being charged with any crime, nor was he a suspect. Specifically, he was a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.

‘That’s mildly reassuring,’ Duke said. ‘On the other hand, the FBI is sitting in my living room at 3:30 in the morning. What are you investigating and how does it relate to me?’

‘It’s purely routine,’ Connors said.

‘Routine,’ Duke repeated. ‘But ongoing you say. What should I make of that?’

‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ Stevens said. ‘This is a dangerous time for the United States. The War on Terror is real – more real than most Americans understand. We want to know why you support radical groups like the NAACP and the ACLU?’

‘Since when is the NAACP and the ACLU considered radical? You have something against the Bill of Rights?’

‘I love my country,’ Stevens said, ‘which is more – ‘

‘What Agent Stevens means,’ Connors said with a smile, ‘is that the security terrain changed drastically after 9/11. Large amounts of information come into the field office and the Bureau is duty bound to investigate some of that information. I’m sure you understand, Professor Duke. Political Science, wasn’t it?’

‘You got a file on me? Should I be insulted or honored? This is becoming more interesting by the minute. OK, so you guys are just here doing your sworn duty by asking a retired poly sci prof about the non-profit groups he’s a member of. Of course you must know that I’m also a member of the AARP and a supporter of the March of Dimes. I assume you also know that I subscribe to the Nation, Mother Jones and Penthouse.’

‘You travel quite a bit, don’t you Professor?’ Connors asked.

‘I’m retired. I get bored easily and need stimulation. Travel is rejuvenating, not to mention an excellent way to meet women.’

‘Do you have any Muslim friends or acquaintances?’ Stevens asked.

‘Is your partner serious?’ Duke said to Connors. ‘Doesn’t the FBI put recruits through a rigorous training program? Obviously, a reject slips through every now and then. Where’d you go to school, Stevens?’

‘Texas Tech,’ Stevens replied with pride.

‘College Republican?’

‘All four years. How’d you know?’

‘Just a wild guess. You admire Newt Gingrich, don’t you?’

‘I think he’s a great American. Do you believe in a Christian god, Professor?’

‘How is that relevant, Agent Stevens?’

‘What about the Bible – do you believe that the Bible is the true word of God?’

Duke looked at Connors, who shrugged, as if to say, ”Hey, he’s just my partner.”

‘As a work of fiction the bible is OK,’ Duke said, ‘but the Good Book is too riddled with contradictions to be taken seriously. The concept of God – just, loving or vengeful -- has never worked for me.’

Stevens furiously jotted notes while Connors rubbed his chin and asked Duke about some academic papers he had written about the Black Panthers ten years ago. Connors wanted to know if Duke believed that violence was a viable political tool.

‘With apologies to Dr. King and the Mahatma, the use of violence can’t be ruled out. Sometimes there is no other way to influence the prevailing order to change. It depends on the context, on the opposition, and on the capacities of the people involved. I’d like to think that non-violent tactics always work, but I know they don’t. I don’t believe that non-violence alone would have changed the apartheid government in South Africa, for instance. Mandela said much the same thing.’

‘Do you consider yourself a radical, Professor?’ Stevens asked.

‘Define radical, Agent Stevens.’

‘A person intent on the overthrow of the existing social, economic or political order.’

Duke laughed. ‘Hell, as far as I’m concerned this is a golden age in this great country of ours. I like my democracy perverted by corporate money; I love it when my country invades other countries on false pretexts; I enjoy watching the gap between rich and poor widen every year; and I think the War on Drugs and the prison-industrial complex is working beautifully. I won’t even mention our glorious police state, of which you two are upstanding representatives. Of course I’m a radical – in the true sense of the word. Look it up, junior, when you have some free time.’

“It went on like this for two hours,” Duke said. “I still don’t know what the hell they were after, but I suspect the FBI isn’t the crack agency it was when J. Edgar Hoover was at the helm by day and wearing a bra and panty hose at night. Better watch your back, my friend -- you might be next. Some of that stuff you write is inflammatory.”

“If they’re worried about me, we’re in trouble.”

“Oh, we’re in the deep shit,” Duke said, “make no mistake. Deep, waist high excrement. Even Albus Dumbledore couldn’t help us now. I should have dispatched myself when I had the chance. It’s hopeless, Tang, absolutely hopeless. We had a shot, and then Obama lost his nerve. The window opened for a brief moment but instead of acting boldly, Obama veered to the safe, predictable center and lashed himself to the status quo. I knew he’d disappoint his supporters, I just didn’t think it would happen so fast. Ah, well, we will reap as we sow, and the coming harvest will not be bountiful. Keep in touch, brother.”